And their death shall precede his! We meant to have taken them alive this evening Amid the merry-making of a feast, And keep them prisoners in the citadel. But this makes shorter work. I go this instant To give the necessary orders. SCENE VII _To these enter_ ILLO _and_ TERZKY TERZKY. Our luck is on the turn. Tomorrow come The Swedes--twelve thousand gallant warriors, Illo, Then straightwise for Vienna. Cheerily, friend! What! meet such news with such a moody face? ILLO. It lies with us at present to prescribe Laws, and take vengeance on those worthless traitors, Those skulking cowards that deserted us; One has already done his bitter penance, The Piccolomini: be his the fate Of all who wish us evil! This flies sure To the old man's heart; he has his whole life long Fretted and toil'd to raise his ancient house From a Count's title to the name of prince; And now must seek a grave for his only son. BUTLER. 'Twas pity, though! A youth of such heroic And gentle temperament! The Duke himself, 'Twas easily seen, how near it went to his heart. ILLO. Hark ye, old friend! That is the very point That never pleased me in our General-- He ever gave the preference to the Italians. Yea, at this very moment, by my soul! He'd gladly see us all dead ten times over, Could he thereby recall his friend to life. TERZKY. Hush, hush! Let the dead rest! This evening's business Is, who can fairly drink the other down-- Your regiment, Illo! gives the entertainment. Come! we will keep a merry carnival-- The night for once be day, and 'mid full glasses Will we expect the Swedish avant-garde. ILLO. Yes, let us be of good cheer for today, For there's hot work before us, friends! This sword Shall have no rest, till it be bathed to the hilt In Austrian blood. GORDON. Shame, shame! what talk is this My Lord Field-Marshal? Wherefore foam you so Against your Emperor? BUTLER. Hope not too much From this first victory. Bethink you, sirs! How rapidly the wheel of Fortune turns; The Emperor still is formidably strong. ILLO. The Emperor has soldiers, no commander, For this King Ferdinand of Hungary Is but a tyro. Gallas? He's no luck, And was of old the ruiner of armies. And then this viper, this Octavio, Is excellent at stabbing in the back, But ne'er meets Friedland in the open field. TERZKY. Trust me, my friends, it cannot but succeed; Fortune, we know, can ne'er forsake the Duke! And only under Wallenstein can Austria Be conqueror. ILLO. The Duke will soon assemble A mighty army: all comes crowding, streaming To banners, dedicate by destiny To fame and prosperous fortune. I behold Old times come back again! he will become Once more the mighty Lord which he has been. How will the fools, who've now deserted him, Look then? I can't but laugh to think of them, For lands will he present to all his friends, And like a King and Emperor reward True services; but we've the nearest claims. [_To_ GORDON.]